


Ten Thousand Dabs of Paint

by colobonema



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Art, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homesickness, Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, The Successor Challenge 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25935244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colobonema/pseuds/colobonema
Summary: Esthar’s most celebrated artist accepts an unusual commission from the Presidential Palace. Pre-canon. For the Successor Challenge 2020.
Relationships: Laguna Loire/Raine Loire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Ten Thousand Dabs of Paint

Disclaimer: I make no claim whatsoever to the characters or world of Final Fantasy VIII, which is the property of Squaresoft/Square Enix.

* * *

**Ten Thousand Dabs of Paint**

"You're all clear. Proceed."

The Presidential Palace security guard heaved the artist's heavy canvas bag off the scanner belt, and thrust it towards the man's chest. He took it gingerly, hoping none of the tubes of pigment had been squished to bursting point.

"Thank you. Where should I-"

"Vice President Seagill will be waiting for you by the central elevator."

The artist nodded his thanks and made his way through the grand entrance lobby of the Palace. He had worked with wealthy clients before, famous ones, even; but the President of Esthar was another level of fame entirely. The piece would surely be a portrait, the artist assumed, though the details had been vague so far. A huge, imposing painting of Esthar's hero, the man whose courage and ingenuity had freed the nation from Sorceress Adel's reign of terror and tyranny. President Laguna Loire.

Kiros Seagill's welcome was perfunctory, though not unfriendly, his calm manner of speaking already familiar from years of digi-broadcast press conferences.

"I hope none of your supplies were damaged? Palace security can be a little heavy-handed at times."

"It looks like everything's in order," the artist replied. He had made sure to check the contents of the bag in the lobby as soon as he could.

They boarded the elevator, and several of the Palace's floors sped past the transparent walls: all neon blues, greens, gleaming metal and plasma infoscreens. As the elevator gathered speed, the artist blinked at the colors that swam together, blending into one luminous mass, and the part of his brain that was always planning the next painting started to unravel them, picking out pigments for each hue.

His thoughts were interrupted by the Vice President's voice at his side. "The canvas has already been prepared for you. Did you receive the message about the dimensions?"

"Yes, sir. It will be the largest piece I've ever worked on, by some margin."

Kiros' mouth twitched a little to one side. "Well, that is something one can say about Laguna. He never does things in half-measures." His features quickly straightened. "I should probably tell you that this commission is of a somewhat... personal nature for the President. You may find him getting rather misty-eyed."

"I shall bear that in mind, sir."

The elevator slowed to a halt, and Kiros led the artist to a room labeled "Meeting Room XXIII". The automatic doors slid open to reveal a mostly empty room: the tables and chairs had been cleared away to make space for the huge canvas propped up on a steel easel frame in the center, the floor covered with a protective synthetic sheet. A man in a sloppily buttoned shirt, baggy pants and beach sandals stood near the canvas, his hands buried in his pockets. He broke into a wide smile at the sight of the two newcomers.

 _He's taller than he looks on the digi-broadcasts,_ the artist thought with a start as Laguna Loire grasped his hand and pumped it up and down with enthusiasm.

"Thanks for comin'. Love your work," the President beamed, while Kiros quietly excused himself and left the room.

"It's- it's an honor, Mr. President. Will today be your first sitting? Do you have a particular pose in mind?"

"Pose?" Laguna repeated, his brow wrinkled in confusion. "Oh. No, it's not a portrait. I want you to paint a landscape for me." He fished a crumpled, twice-folded piece of paper from the pocket of his pants and handed it to the artist. "I made a rough sketch, but I'm not so great at drawin'. Thought I could fill in the gaps with description. You know?"

The paper, after unfolding, showed a shaky pencil sketch of a section of a town, a handful of houses built in the old style. Stone and mortar, not the gleaming steel and blue perspex that characterized Esthar. The shape of mountains was suggested with thin, jagged lines in the sky. A road ran through the middle of the scene, with a tall, triangular steeple rising high on the right side. There was a name written in capital letters at the bottom of the paper. _WINHILL._ It rang a very faint bell in the artist's memory. He'd probably seen it in an atlas, long ago, before Adel prohibited the possession of information about other countries. Of course, President Loire was foreign-born; everyone knew that. This must be his hometown.

"The colors, I thought we could choose 'em together." Laguna glanced at the artist's canvas bag. "Can you mix some up now?"

The artist unzipped the bag and took out several tubes of pigment, two palettes, and four sable-hair brushes. Laguna eagerly picked up the tube of Trabian Blue and held it up close to his eyes.

"This one'll do for the sky. You'd hardly even have to mix it."

"It looks slightly different on the palette, sir. Let me show you."

He squeezed the Trabian Blue out and spread it around a little, and Laguna, fascinated, directed him to add increments of white until he was satisfied. They moved on to the other colors, and after an hour of so of mixing different samples, had agreed on a warm, sandy brown for the dirt track, several shades of vibrant green for the thick trees and patches of grass, and a delicate bluish gray for the snow-topped peaks in the background, as well as a range of more subdued tones for the stonework of the houses.

The artist started to lay out the brushes he would need, and stood back to survey the canvas from a distance. He started to map out the different elements of the painting in his mind - the tall tree here, the steeple roof there, a row of flowers here. Colors sprawled and spread across the canvas in his mind's eye, and as a smile of satisfaction found its way to his lips, he became aware of the President watching him.

"Sir?"

Laguna looked guilty for a moment. "Ah, I guess you prefer to work alone? 'Course you do. I'll leave you in peace soon enough. I just, well, I find your style so fascinating. That's why I chose you. The way each dab of paint is so large and messy, close up, like a kid's picture - no offense, you know what I mean - then when you look at the whole piece from a distance, it all makes perfect sense." His eyes shone with appreciation, then his face grew serious. "Y'know, I've... I've been thinkin' of it as a metaphor for my life. I'm hopin' all my messy splodges over the years will come together in the end."

The artist gaped at the President, wondering if this ridiculous self-deprecation was some sort of test. "Sir," he protested, "you're a hero to this nation."

Laguna's focus was lost in the middle distance for a while, still unsmiling. "I didn't set out to be," he said quietly, before the easy smile returned. "It's nice of you to say so, though. I'll give you some space."

* * *

The artist worked on the canvas for six hours that day, and eight the next. The President was always waiting for him on arrival, twinkly-eyed and effusive with praise for the previous day's progress. Sometimes he stayed to watch for a little while, before inevitably being called away to his duties by a white-robed aide.

On the fourth day, the artist started to fill in the houses. The paint sample they had made together on the first day for the color of the roof tiles had dried quite dark, and the artist asked the President for confirmation.

Laguna screwed up his eyes. "Nope, that's not right. It needs to be more red. Like clay from the earth. There's an old Dolletian word for it..."

"Terracotta, sir?"

"Yeah, that was it. Terracotta. 'Baked earth', I think it meant? Slept through most of my classics classes. Anyway, that's what they are. Clay. Each tile was fired in an oven by the town mason. I helped fix some of 'em back on the roof after they came off in a storm."

The artist shook his head in wonder. "I've often wondered how Westerners live in such basic structures. It's difficult to imagine a dwelling without climate control, face-recognition security panels, home AI systems..."

The President's shoulders shook as he laughed. "Oh, you'd get by somehow. Didn't you Esthari manage without all those things until a few decades ago?"

"I suppose we did. It's easy to forget." The artist recalled, dimly, the day his father had installed the AI assistant in their old apartment in Esthar's District 27. _Alexandra, lights on. Alexandra, lights off._ He'd had endless fun relaying commands to her in the middle of the night. His parents hadn't found it quite so amusing. Hadn't his father burst into his bedroom in his pajamas and threatened to rip the control panel out of the wall? He smiled to himself as he mixed a touch of Centran Red onto the palette.

"Mr., ah..." The President frowned. The artist had heard he wasn't good with names, especially without an aide to remind him.

"Monnay, sir."

"The sky should be more... How can I put this? Not wispy, thin clouds like the ones in Esthar's skies. They should be..." He made a swirling motion with both hands. "Like balls of fluff. Big and soft. As if you could bounce up and down on 'em."

Monnay took his second palette, covered it with a generous squeeze of the white pigment, and softened the stiff paste with his brush. When it had reached the right consistency, he began to blend it with blues and blacks, just the smallest hint of gray, and daubed it onto the canvas in broad, thick strokes. The President watched silently, until Monnay began to feel unnerved.

"Is it looking better, sir?" he asked.

Laguna fiddled with the back of his ponytail. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is. I'm sorry 'bout this."

"Sir?"

"It's a pretty unreasonable request, askin' you to paint a place you've never been to. Must be like clutchin' at... at strawberries."

 _What an odd phrase,_ Monnay thought. A quaint Galbadian saying, he supposed. "We say 'clutching at straws' here in Esthar."

"Why would anyone clutch at a _straw_?" asked Laguna, looking genuinely baffled. "Anyway, it's a lot to ask of you. Sorry. You ever worked like this before?"

"I've painted from digital photographs, but not from a... a description, no."

"Hmm." Laguna bobbed up and down on his heels, his arms crossed. "How about we try a little mental exercise? Would you humor me for a minute or two?"

"Of course," Monnay replied. He could hardly say no to the President of Esthar.

"Great. Close your eyes."

Monnay obliged, and a few awkward moments passed before the President began to talk.

"You're in the painting now. You're there. You're standin' on the dirt track, your steps making the dust rise. The dust, it's... it's got a reddish tinge to it. It's so fine it leaves a thin layer all over your boots, seeping into every crack in the leather, so much that you've given up polishin' them." Laguna hesitated, and Monnay opened one eye to see the President's brow creased, his eyes shut tightly. "There's a light breeze. It's late afternoon, and the last of the sun is hittin' the sides of the buildings. It's like melted butter, or gold... you feel it warmin' your cheeks and your forehead."

His eyes closed once more, Monnay heard the faint slap of the President's sandals on the floor as he started to pace across the meeting room.

"When the breeze is right, you get a hint of the smells of dinner cooking. Thick broth comin' from that house, slow-cooked meat from this one, apple pie from another. You hear one of your neighbors callin' her children in. They've been playin' in the meadow since after lunch. You know it's time for your dinner soon, too. Wonder what she's making, back at your place. She never tells you what it is until it's served." The President's voice was softer now.

"You look up at the mountains. The snow's still on 'em, like frosting running down the sides of a cake. You wonder when it's goin' to melt. The townsfolk say it's late this year. One year, there was still traces of white up there in July, so they say. When the melt comes, the streams run faster, and the water's so pure, an' ice-cold, and... you taste it, and it feels like you're drinkin' an elixir. You splash it on your face, and you laugh, and you're glad you're alive. That you're alive, and you're _here._ "

The sound of the pacing stopped, and Monnay slowly opened his eyes to the neon-lit meeting room and its data-paneled walls, the quiet hum of electronics, and the smells of metal and paint. President Loire blinked back at him, suddenly sheepish, scratching the back of his neck.

"That's... that's it, I think. For now, anyway. Did it help?"

"Yes. Very much." He started to paint again, trying to capture the images that had filled his mind. "It must be a beautiful place, your home in the West."

"It wasn't my home for long." The President's sigh was barely audible. "Not nearly long enough."

* * *

The following days passed in an explosion of color, and Monnay found himself dreaming of the faraway town every night after work. If, one day, Esthar reopened its borders... He wanted to see it with his own eyes, just once. Winhill.

The President's visits had become less frequent, as official business called him away from the Palace. The last day that Monnay saw him, he had stood in front of the canvas, neck craned, then moved back step by step until the entire picture filled his vision.

"It's coming along well. You've got the colors just right." Laguna gestured to the house on the lower left side. "Just one thing. This house, here... it was a florist's. There should be more flowers in the front garden, and the window boxes."

"What kind of flowers, sir?" Monnay asked, readying a clean palette.

"Lilies. White ones." His voice cracked on the last word, and when Monnay turned, the President's eyes were hidden under the shade of one hand.

"Think I need some air. Excuse me."

* * *

Two days after Laguna's sudden exit, the painting was complete. Monnay felt nervous upon seeing him again; he had wondered if he had somehow offended the President. He waited outside the door to the meeting room, stomach churning for the first time since his exams at Esthar College of the Arts, many years before.

The President was unusually subdued and formal when he arrived, and Monnay's nerves only heightened, but he opened the door, and let Laguna stride in front to view the finished work, _A View of Winhill._

Laguna stopped at a distance, and let out a loud exhale. Then he moved closer, right up to the canvas, and Monnay saw his fingers trace along the petals of the white lilies in front of the foremost house. If it was possible for a wave of pure yearning to radiate from a human being, it was happening now. In that instant, the artist understood that he was looking at a man who was far, far away from the place where his heart remained. The President's pain, caused by that irreparable distance, was his lifelong sacrifice for the people of Esthar. And yet, every day, he covered it with a smile.

He found his voice, and ventured the question. "Sir, is it...?"

"Perfect. It's perfect."

Laguna turned to face the artist, and Monnay saw neither pain nor longing, but peace and gratitude in the President's clear blue eyes.

And each one of those ten thousand strokes, every single dab of paint, was worth it, all for that moment.

* * *

That afternoon, six workmen and three ladders were used to affix the painting above the doors to the Presidential reception room. From that day on, each visitor who noticed it would raise their heads and look up at the oddly misplaced rural scene, wondering where it was, or if it was even real. Whether they had heard of Winhill or not, they would find their hearts warmed by the colors and the feelings that the painting stirred, and it would linger in their minds long after leaving the Palace.

And every day, before he started work, the President would gaze up at it with a faraway smile, his eyes drawn to the lilies in the window-box of the leftmost house.

"Then, now, and always, Raine," he would promise, and somewhere, a place even further away than the lands of the West, the woman who once loved those white lilies might have heard him.

_Then, now and always._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This fic is posted as part of the 2020 Successor Challenge, with "distance" as the prompt word. The existence of the painting is canon, although it's a little bit "blink-and-miss-it" in the game. (It hangs over the reception room in the Presidential Palace, so you see it a long time before you learn who the President actually is.) A subtle, poignant reminder of Laguna's grief for Raine. I just love those half-hidden touches in FFVIII.


End file.
